


Short Circuit

by laylabinx



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Electrocution, Exhaustion, Gaby thinks they're both idiots, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illya is worried, Napoleon Whump, Napoleon is stubborn, Prompt Fic, broken ribs, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laylabinx/pseuds/laylabinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's desperation that causes Illya to do something he had tried to do the first time he met Napoleon: he breaks one of his ribs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chair

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Wow, I feel like I haven't written anything not school-related in forever! I found this prompt a while back on the LJ and just now got around to doing anything about it. I know the whole "don't-die-on-me-dammit!" CPR scene is super cliche but it was fun to write =p Hope you all like it! :D
> 
> A/N: I own nothing =/

There's a tremendous crack, like the sound of a gun backfiring, and then every light in the room goes dark. For a moment, there's no movement, no sound, no light; it's all just dark and quiet. There's a heavy scent of ozone and burning cotton and a combination of things that just smell...hot. Singed clothing, burning hair, scorched skin. Rudi frowns and stands up from his desk.

He takes a step away, walking carefully and cautiously across the darkened room. His shoes brushes the tangled mass of cords and wires on the floor and he follows it to the opposite wall, careful not to step directly on the snaking expanse of cable. The power outage is localized, the breaker had tripped from inside the room. He sighs in annoyance and places a slightly fumbling hand against the wall to anchor himself. The Chair was a brilliant machine, it really was, but it consumed so much energy during each session that it could really only be used sparingly and for special occasions. He smiles grimly to himself; today _had_ been a special occasion though so he doesn't regret using it.

He finds the breaker and flips it, the power flickering back on with a few crackles and a dull hum. The wires connected to The Chair are still alive and buzzing with electricity but the short had caused the connection to fizzle out again so the currents had nowhere to go other than to course and vibrate through the wire strands. He'd have to reconnect it again before they could continue, a bothersome task but one that must be tended to if The Chair was going to be of any use.

He spares a glance at his subject and frowns. The light bulb hanging above the American agent is still swaying slightly from when he'd swung it earlier, casting odd, long shadow across the room. The agent is slumped in The Chair, hanging against the straps restraining him like they're the only things keeping him from toppling out onto the floor. In all likelihood, they probably are. He's limp and boneless in the seat, eyes closed and head tipped forward against the leather strap across his forehead. There's a steady, glistening stream of blood spilling from one nostril and leaving dark, widening spots of blood on his dark vest. The doctor frowns again and takes a hesitant step forward.

"Mr. Solo?" he asks as he approaches The Chair, his eyes locked on the limp agent still strapped into it. He doesn't receive an answer or any indication that the agent heard him. He takes another step forward.

"Mr Solo," he says again, a bit more loudly this time, his voice bouncing off the shadowed walls around them. He's met with a similar reaction to the one before and comes to a disappointing conclusion.

Looking back down at the jumble of cables and wires hooked into the wall and determining that The Chair is not live at the moment, he reaches out and taps a cautious hand against the arm of The Chair, testing for a current. When he's not immediately electrocuted, he takes another step forward and hunches at the waist to peer at the American agent's face.

The streak of blood dripping from his nose is the only element of color against the agent's face, his skin an unhealthy pallor that appears almost waxy beneath the single bulb above his head. There's a few, very thin wisps of smoke curling across the fabric of his vest from where the leather straps are pressed flush to his body. Unlike the often humorous portrayal depicted in cartoons and comics, a surge of electricity through the human body does not produce smoke from the ears and the black light stamp of a skeleton inside the body. No, the effects are much more subtle, more understated. Electricity causes such beautiful damage to the body; it's truly an exquisite and lost art.

Only this time it appears his art has reached its peak too quickly. He reaches out and presses his fingers to the side of the agent's throat, holding them there silently for several seconds. After seven full seconds go by without a pulse, he sighs heavily in disappointment and lets his hand fall away.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, frowning at the dead agent in The Chair. "And I had such wonderful things planned for you, Mr. Solo. It's disappointing, really; such a waste." He sighs and shrugs nonchalantly. "Oh well, I suppose they just don't make them the way the used to anymore," he says, gazing nostalgically back at his book. At least he would have if someone else hadn't slipped in while his back was turned and was in front of his desk.

The man is tall and looming and he recognizes him instantly as Gaby's "fiance". It takes a second or two longer for his brain to make the connection that he's also KGB.

The Russian's eyes dart between the doctor and the other agent still strapped into The Chair and there's a noise that sounds remarkably like a growl that rumbles out of him. One hand twitches into a tightly balled fist as his side and he takes a menacing step forward.

Rudi tries to take a step back in retreat but his foot catches on a bundle of wires and he momentarily loses his balance. It's more than enough time for the Russian agent to close the space between them and grab the doctor by his lapels. His fingers dig into fabric and flesh alike and the former Nazi is jerked off the floor with terrifyingly little effort.

"N-No! Wait!" he stammers, his hands wrapped around the Russian agent's wrists uselessly. It doesn't do him any good. There is no humanity in the agent's icy blue eyes; all he sees is cold, murderous fury.

In a sudden burst of strength he's airborne, flying across the room and crashing into his desk. The wood splinters and cracks and he lands in a painful heap on the ground. The agent is above him a second later, towering over him like a ravenous grizzly bear. The doctor's glasses are bent and askew on his nose but even through the blurry lenses he can see the closed fist plummeting down toward him. It hits him in the temple and he goes limp instantly.

Illya glares down at the unconscious doctor wordlessly, fists clenched tightly at his sides and breathing heavily. The thought of killing him briefly flickers through his mind but he dismisses it just as quickly; he's not here to make such decisions. Besides, he may have information that will come in handy later.

Satisfied that he won't be getting up any time soon, Illya turns his attention away from the former Nazi and back to his partner strapped into something that looks remarkably like an electric chair. He crosses the room quickly and comes to a stop in front of the chair, crouching down and setting to work on the buckles on the straps.

"Come on, Cowboy," he says as the first set of straps is released. "Time to go."

He doesn't get any response from the man above him but he doesn't think much of it. He's more focused on freeing him and getting them both out of here than he is a snarky remark from the American agent. The next strap comes loose like the first and he moves up to the ones fastened across Napoleon's chest. He stops when he notices the bloodstains on his vest.

His hand freezes above the largest stain and he looks up, a heavy, sinking feeling tugging at the base of his stomach. The other agent's eyes are closed and he's slumped bonelessly in the chair. If he didn't know any better he'd almost swear the other man was-

A flutter of panic mixed with denial spikes through him and he abandons the straps at the American agent's chest and removes the one across his forehead. Without the assistance of the strap holding it upright, Napoleon's head lolls forward listlessly, his chin bouncing off his chest. Illya reaches out and places his hands on either side of the other man's face, lifting his head up easily. He actively ignores the fact that there is no resistance to the movement.

"Cowboy," he says loudly, patting the American's face hard enough to hurt. There's no reaction from Napoleon and Illya curses quietly. He tips Napoleon's head into his left hand and prods the pulse point beneath his jaw with his right. Feeling nothing, he growls, moves his fingers a little, and presses down a bit harder. He leans in close, his ear directly in front of the other agent's nose and mouth, and listens closely. Nothing. Napoleon is not breathing and Illya can't find a pulse. He curses again.

He doesn't bother unbuckling the last few straps connecting Napoleon to the chair, he just rips them off with his bare hands. He catches his lifeless partner as he slumps forward, pulling him out of the chair and dragging him across the room. Once they're completely clear of the cords and cables, he lays him down flat on the concrete floor and crouches down beside him.

Save for the bloodstains on his vest, Napoleon is still impeccably dressed in a pressed button-down shirt and silk tie. Both of which Illya immediately destroys. He pulls a knife from his boot and slices through the tie, tossing it to the side carelessly. He doesn't cut the shirt but he does rip the collar open, two buttons popping into the air and then scattering across the floor.

He pulls the collar away from Napoleon's throat and presses his fingers to his carotid again, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his pulse would be easier to detect now that he's flat on the floor. His hopes are dashed pretty instantly when his search once again yields nothing. He growls in frustration and moves to position his hands over Napoleon's heart.

The first few compressions are jerky and awkward and he has to reposition his body in order to gain more leverage. It takes a second but once he finds the correct position, he re-laces his fingers and begins pushing down again.

"You are not dying here," he grumbles to the lifeless man beneath him. "You are supposed to be CIA's best. So prove it."

He falls into a steady rhythm, doing his best to mimic the rate of his compressions with that of a healthy, functional heart. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand and to not think about the way his lifeless partner is rocking bonelessly beneath his hands.

Several silent seconds pass by with no results and Illya is beginning to get agitated. He casts a murderous glance over his shoulder back to the crumpled doctor on the floor and debates once again whether or not he should go back and finish the job. Napoleon still isn't breathing and the fact that the former Nazi is directly responsible for that is enough to make Illya want to tear him into tiny pieces. Combined with the fact that Gaby had betrayed them and was then subsequently whisked away by the Vinciguerras, it added a certain level of desperation and urgency to an already tense situation.

It's this level of desperation that causes Illya to do something he had tried to do the first time he met Napoleon: he breaks one of his ribs. He feels the bone pop and give way slightly beneath his hand as he pushes down again and he mutters a silent apology in his head. He'll offer a verbal apology once Napoleon starts breathing again. ' _If_ ' his brain chides grimly and he forcefully pushes it out of his mind. Illya Kuryakin is not one to give up easily and he's sure as hell not about to start now.

"упрямый ублюдок," he grumbles in frustration, abandoning the chest compressions and tilting Napoleon's head back. He hunches down and forces two full breaths into the American agent's unresponsive lungs. When he pulls back, he can taste Solo's blood on his lips and for some reason that just makes the situation worse. "дышать черт вас."

He sits back, repositions his hands, and starts compressions again. He feels another rib crack beneath his hands a few seconds later but he keeps going. Napoleon risked his life for him in the bay and he's determined to repay the favor.

There's a very slight twitch beneath him and he pauses momentarily, blue eyes darting to the American's face. Napoleon's face contorts in a grimace and suddenly he's coughing violently, a deep, painful sound that comes from the very bottom of his lungs. He sucks in a deep, halting breath and releases it as another hoarse cough a second or so later.

Illya reacts quickly, reaching out and rolling the American agent onto his side as another harsh round of coughing rattles through him. "It's okay," he says quietly but he's not exactly sure who he's reassuring at the moment. "You're alright. Just breathe."

Napoleon coughs and chokes for several more long seconds until he's finally able to draw a proper breath. One hand is clutching his chest as he struggles to breath normally and the other is clenched in the fabric of Illya's pants.

When he's finally able to breathe again, Napoleon slumps back onto the ground and blinks up at his partner. "Peril?" he asks, his voice raw and ragged around the edges.

The Russian agent just nods in affirmation. Napoleon's hand is still gripping his pants leg like a lifeline and he looks shaky and pale but he's breathing and for now that's all that matters. "You doing okay, Cowboy?"

Napoleon manages a weak, uncoordinated nod and coughs again. "I never thought I'd say this…" he says, pausing to catch his breath. "But I'm actually quite pleased to see you."

Illya smirks a bit and reaches down to help him sit up. "The feeling is mutual."

It takes a second but eventually Napoleon is able to sit up on his own (he politely ignores the way Illya's hand hovers behind one shoulder to make sure he's not about to fall over). He tries to take a deeper breath now that he's upright but a spasm of pain halts it about halfway in and he hisses sharply. His ribs are on fire, white-hot jolts of pain shooting through his chest each time he breathes. He gasps quietly and lays one hand flat against his ribs and yep, definitely broken. Or cracked at the very least.

He shoots a quizzical look at Illya and the Russian agent just shrugs. "Sorry," he says although he doesn't sound too apologetic. "Was necessary."

Napoleon just nods and grits his teeth. "Fair enough," he mumbles with another wince, his gaze drifting over to the crumpled Nazi doctor across the room. "What do you want to do with him?"

Illya follows his gaze and there's something dark and terrifying about the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I have a few ideas."


	2. Cosmic Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon nods and tries to take a step forward but a rush of dizziness swells around him and he staggers slightly. Illya sees this and reacts quickly, stepping forward to steady him. One large hand lands on the American agent's shoulder and Napoleon reaches up to cling to his wrist tightly, clutching it like an anchor. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take a deep breath but it comes out jerky and fast. For a second he's afraid he's going to pass out, the sound fading around him and the world going white around the edges. He can hear Illya saying his name but it's muzzy and far away like the words themselves are foggy...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Hope you're all doing well!

It takes very little to persuade Napoleon to follow Illya's lead in strapping uncle Rudi into his beloved Chair. Convincing his body to obey the commands, however, is a bit more difficult.

The former Nazi is beginning to come around on the other side of the room, shifting and groaning quietly from his place on the ground. Illya is already up and making his way across the room and Napoleon thinks he's right behind him but that's actually not the case. He tries to move, he really does, but his hands are tingling and he belatedly realizes that he can't really feel his legs. There's an odd sensation all the way down to his feet, a weird buzzing like thousands of bees vibrating through his veins. He manages to pull himself to his knees but that's about as far as he gets, the slight change in gravity leaving him dizzy and winded.

His heartbeat is erratic and uneven, thumping against his cracked ribs in a jerky, irregular rhythm. It's hard to catch his breath and each time he inhales, his ribs throb viciously like shards of glass are piercing his chest. He grits his teeth and tries to breathe past the pain but it's a little difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Cowboy?" Illya's voice cuts into his thoughts and he looks up to see the other agent watching him carefully.

Napoleon lifts a hand to wave off his concerns nonchalantly but the gestures comes off a little more sporadic and uncoordinated than he'd planned. "I'm fine, Peril," he calls back to the other agent. It's an obvious lie but Napoleon is really good at bending the truth when it suits him. "Just catching my breath."

Illya doesn't appear convinced, his blue eyes still locked on his partner while one hand clutches a fistful of Rudi's shirt. There's something in his expression that Napoleon doesn't have a name for; if he didn't know any better he'd describe it as concern and move on with his life. He doesn't know how long he was down but the intensity of the Illya's gaze makes it clear that it was definitely long enough. The scrutiny is making him uncomfortable though and his first task is to dispel it.

He forces himself to stand up, one arm coming up to wrap across his injured ribs, and tries to hide the grimace that accompanies it. He takes a shallow breath, gritting his teeth at the stab of pain that shoots through his ribs, and slowly makes his way across the room to where Illya is standing. The Russian eyes him carefully as he approaches, tense and ready to provide assistance should the other agent need it. Napoleon makes on his own, albeit somewhat slower than usual, and comes to a stop on the other side of the now semi-conscious doctor.

"Into The Chair?" he asks, his voice a little more strained and breathless than it normally is. He can feel Illya's eyes still on him so he keeps his gaze focused on the former Nazi instead.

"Into The Chair," Illya agrees after a moment, lifting the doctor a little higher off the ground.

Napoleon reaches out and grabs a handful of Rudi's shirt as well and pretends to ignore the way Illya actively takes the brunt of the weight while giving off the illusion that Napoleon is lifting him too. In reality, between the busted ribs and the lingering dizziness and weakness, Napoleon isn't sure he could lift so much as a telephone at the moment, let alone a grown man. He appreciates that Illya apparently respects him enough now not to call him on it and instead act as though nothing is wrong. It's a simple gesture but it's appreciated all the same.

Even with Illya taking over 90% of Rudi's weight, Napoleon still has to bite back a gasp as the added weight puts pressure on his injured ribs. It's everything he can do not to hiss in pain as they drag the mostly limp doctor across the room and drop him into The Chair. Illya says nothing when Napoleon releases his hold on the doctor's shirt and hunches at the waist, breathing shallowly and trying his hardest not to pass out. He presses one hand to his knees and keeps his other arm wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his side as he struggles to breathe normally.

"You need a doctor," Illya informs him as he secures the straps across the former Nazi's body. It's not a question but rather a painfully obvious statement.

"I need a stiff drink," Napoleon replies and he almost laughs but decides against it. Standing is difficult enough, laughing would probably make him black out.

Illya doesn't find the humor in the statement and pulls the last strap into place tight enough to make Rudi yelp his way back to consciousness. "I'm serious."

Napoleon grits his teeth and straightens slowly, cautiously allowing his arm to fall away as he does so. "I know you are," he says honestly, trying for a smile that probably looks a lot like a grimace. "I'm fine for now," he tells him again even though they both know it's a lie.

Their attention shifts once Rudi begins babbling nervously from his place in The Chair, offering different forms of information and bribery in exchange for his life. For a brief moment he seems genuinely surprised to see Napoleon alive and (mostly) functional, standing on the opposite side of The Chair this time. The expression quickly fades when it becomes apparent that neither agent is willing to buy into what he's offering.

They leave him strapped to The Chair and step outside the room, partially to discuss what they should do with him but mostly because neither of them really want to listen to his cowardly drivel anymore.

Napoleon keeps one hand pressed against his side as they discuss what should be done with Rudi, his muscles tense and expression tight with pain. He's still dizzy and he doesn't trust himself to move very quickly for the next few minutes but at least some of the numbness in his legs has faded. Everything still feels like it's buzzing though and he's pretty sure that will take much longer to go away.

Illya watches him from the corner of his eye, the muscles in his jaw locked tightly in barely concealed rage. Napoleon didn't miss the way his fingers were alternating between tapping against the leg of his slacks and uncurling and curling into a fist at his side. If he'd had his way about it, he's pretty sure the Russian agent would be more than happy to let Rudi experience the brutality of The Chair for himself. Hell, Napoleon wouldn't mind flipping the switch and walking away either. But the former Nazi did have information, possibly _valuable_ information, and it would be more beneficial to hand him over to their respective governments instead of lighting him up here.

Their discussion is brief and decisive but not nearly as decisive as the stroke of karma that takes place behind them. It's the smell that draws their attention, an acrid combination of smoke and blistering skin. Through the window there's a bright flash of flames and electricity and the question about what to do with uncle Rudi is pretty much answered for them.

"Damn," Napoleon mutters, his voice tinged with regret. "I left my jacket in there…"

Illya watches the flames climb higher, a sort of grim satisfaction flickering across his expression. "We should go," he says finally, nodding in the direction of the hallway in front of them. "Flames will attract guards."

Napoleon nods and tries to take a step forward but a rush of dizziness swells around him and he staggers slightly. Illya sees this and reacts quickly, stepping forward to steady him. One large hand lands on the American agent's shoulder and Napoleon reaches up to cling to his wrist tightly, clutching it like an anchor. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take a deep breath but it comes out jerky and fast. For a second he's afraid he's going to pass out, the sound fading around him and the world going white around the edges. He can hear Illya saying his name but it's muzzy and far away like the words themselves are foggy.

"Cowboy!" Illya says urgently, his grip on Napoleon's shoulder tightening just slightly. The words are a little clearer now and the dizziness fades gradually like a wave pulling back from the shore. Napoleon still feels a bit shaky on his feet but he doesn't feel like he's on the verge of a blackout anymore which is promising.

"I really hate Nazis," he says finally once he feels like he can speak without being sick. He opens his eyes to find Illya staring intensely, blue eyes tracking across his face critically. It would have been unnerving if Napoleon didn't still feel like he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

Illya eyebrows are knit together in concern and the muscles in his jaw are tight. "Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Napoleon assures him even though the veracity of his statement is yet to be determined. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Debatable," Illya remarks dubiously but that's all he says on the matter. He gives Napoleon a few more seconds to compose himself before leading the way down the hall. Between their joint connections, it shouldn't be difficult to arrange for pickup once they get outside the building. The only problem now is that they have to actually _make_ it outside.

In spite of his reassurances, it's painfully obvious that Napoleon is not holding up well. He manages to keep in stride with Illya for about ten feet before his steps begin to slow and he begins to lag behind. He's still having a hard time catching his breath and the combined agony of cracked ribs is not helping the situation. There's still a vague numbness in his legs that makes his steps clumsy and a little uncoordinated and the lingering dizziness only adds to the discomfort.

Illya glances back at him over his shoulder every few seconds, making sure the other agent is still behind him and hasn't decided to pass out halfway down the hall. Napoleon meets his gaze defiantly each time, determined to prove that he can make it on his own and does not need help. Which Illya would be more than happy to let him do if they weren't in immediate danger of getting caught.

He sighs, braces himself to the snarky protest that is just waiting to happen, and turns back toward his partner. He reaches out and grabs Napoleon's arm (mindful of the side his injured ribs are on) and loops it over his shoulder. "Be angry later," he tells him as he pulls him along through the hallway. Surprisingly, Napoleon doesn't object the way Illya had been expecting him to which is simply another testament to how bad it actually is.

The hallway ends at a door that swings out into a wide open field. It won't be long before the entire compound is swarming with armed guards so they take advantage of their head start and make a break for a clump of trees nearby. Illya runs as fast as he can with Napoleon still pressed against his side, only stopping once he's sure they're at least somewhat secure.

He lets go of the American agent's arm and allows him to braces himself against a tree while he digs a map out of his pocket. Illya divides his attention between examining the map and keeping an eye on his partner, frowning at the sickly pallor of the other man's skin. Napoleon is leaning against the tree heavily, trying his hardest to level out his breathing. It's not working very well, each breath coming in harsh, painful gasps.

Illya regrets having to force him to run in such a state but it was necessary and he didn't have a choice. He placates his guilt with the knowledge that Napoleon will receive adequate medical care once they've been extracted. It's small comfort but it's better than nothing.

He locates a small farming community on the map, a little over a mile from their current location. It will be easier to coordinate pick up from there so that's where they should go.

"Cowboy, we must keep going," he tells the other agents, a hint of regret in his voice at forcing the other man to keeping going so soon.

Napoleon responds by very politely vomiting in a bush and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He takes another ragged, painful breath and just nods. "Ready when you are, Peril."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys!


	3. Between a Russian Agent and a Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm fine, Peril," Napoleon insists for what feels like the twentieth time since Illya had pulled him from Rudi's torture chamber. He's not fine but he's not about to admit that and Illya doesn't need to know. "You worry too much."
> 
> "You were dead."
> 
> "I got better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks so much for all of your reviews and support of this story; you guys are amazing! :D
> 
> A/N: I know nowadays it's generally frowned upon to wrap/bind broken ribs but it was pretty standard practice for a while. Just throwing that out there for the purpose of this chapter! :p

"No," Illya says firmly, crossing his arms over his broad chest and fixing Napoleon with a solid glare.

"You've said that already," the American agent counters smoothly as he pulls the black turtleneck over his head gingerly. He's absurdly proud of the fact that he doesn't hiss in a sharp breath as he tugs the shirt on. His cracked ribs still limit his movement but the bindings around his torso help provide a little more range of movement. He flashes him a quick but watery version of his usual charming smile. "Starting to sound a bit like a broken record, Peril."

Illya is not impressed. He had pushed Napoleon into the hands of a medic once they were retrieved by Waverly and left to get briefed on the rescue mission for Gaby. He had been under the assumption that with Napoleon out of commission, he'd be left responsible for rescuing Gaby from the Vinciguerra's on his own.

Napoleon had other ideas, however, and had absolutely no intention of letting him go off on his own in what would have assuredly been a suicide mission. He'd managed to convince the medic that other than the broken ribs (and some rather impressive bruising around his sternum courtesy of Illya), he was perfectly alright to go on the rescue mission. He hadn't bothered to mention The Chair or the fact that he was clinically dead for a few minutes because really, that was just splitting hairs.

The medic hadn't pushed the issue past a cursory physical exam although he did make note of a slight arrhythmia in Napoleon's file. He'd bandaged his ribs and released him on the condition that he would return for a more thorough evaluation later. Napoleon had accepted the terms happily and had very little intention of actually following through with them.

He'd gotten his second wind after Waverly had picked them up and informed them of Gaby's British Intelligence involvement. Knowing she hadn't betrayed them, he was now just as eager to get her back as Illya was. The only remaining issue was getting passed the very stern and rigid Russian agent who was adamantly refusing to let him leave the room.

"You should be in hospital bed," Illya grumbles, his accent thick and his eyes still locked on the other agent as he continues to move (slowly, carefully) around the room. "Not dressing for a mission."

"I'm fine, Peril," Napoleon insists for what feels like the twentieth time since Illya had pulled him from Rudi's torture chamber. He's not fine but he's not about to admit that and Illya doesn't need to know. "You worry too much."

"You were dead."

"I got better."

Illya grumbles something irritably in Russian and shakes his head. "You are an idiot."

"I've heard that before."

"Unbelievably stubborn."

"I've heard that too."

"And reckless," Illya finishes, fixing him with an exasperated glare. "I cannot rescue Gaby if I am worried about you too. It is a distraction that I cannot afford."

Napoleon sighs quietly and shakes his head. "Which is why _you_ are not rescuing Gaby. _We_ are."

Illya opens his mouth like he wants to protest the issue further but Napoleon beats him to it. "Listen, I understand," he tells him honestly. "Believe me, I do. I got her involved in this just as much as you did. If I thought for one second my body wouldn't hold up to the task and I would inadvertently put her at risk, I wouldn't go. I know you want her back, Peril; I do too."

Illya stares at him silently for several seconds, taking in the unhealthy pallor of his skin and the lines of pain around his eyes. Napoleon _thinks_ he's a lot better at hiding things than he actually is but Illya can see just how much The Chair drained him. He's still standing but it looks like a strong breeze is all it would take to send him to the ground. Illya doesn't want him to go because he knows Napoleon is not at his best, regardless of what he says, and he's putting himself at even greater risk. And, if Illya is being completely honest with himself, he's not exactly eager to see anymore harm come to the other agent.

True, their tenuous partnership had been rocky from the very beginning but they had worked surprisingly well together when it came down to it. And the image of Napoleon lifeless, not breathing, _dead_ on the floor of Rudi's torture room still made the muscles in his jaw clench until they ached. He thinks back to Rudi's charred body in The Chair and while he's glad for the ironic turn of cosmic justice, he still thinks it was too merciful.

Napoleon is staring back at him, steady and determined in a way that puts Illya slightly off his decision. He appreciates the other agent's persistence though, the grit and energy he's obvious hanging on to only by a thread. Napoleon is stubborn as all hell and it makes Illya want to punch him and buy him a stiff drink at the same time. He sighs heavily and shakes his head in only way he's getting off this ship without Napoleon in tow is if he sedates him or physically ties him to the hospital bed (an idea he's not completely rejecting right now).

"Fine," he mutters irritably, realizing this is a losing fight. "But I take lead. No exceptions."

Napoleon holds both hands up in concession. "All yours, comrade." He offers Illya another smile that tries really hard to come across as dashing and charismatic but really just looks wan. "Let's go rescue your fiancee."

**OOOOO**

In retrospect, Napoleon has to admit that maybe following through with a night raid and engaging in the subsequent chase across the island probably wasn't the best idea. They'd gotten Gaby back but not without their fair share of scrapes and bruises to go along with it. Gaby had been bundled up in a few layers of blankets to treat a mild case of hypothermia and although he was doing a fairly good job of hiding the tightness in his jaw, Napoleon could tell Illya was more than a little bruised and battered from his encounter with Alexander's car. After toppling off the side of a hill and having a motorcycle land on top of him, Illya was able to walk away pretty admirably. True, once the adrenaline wore off he was sure the Russian agent wouldn't be quite as stoic anymore but that would take a little while longer.

Speaking of adrenaline, it truly is a remarkable thing. Even with his busted ribs screaming in protest throughout most of the rescue mission, Napoleon was able to ignore it for the most part in favor of trying to keep Gaby alive. Sure, they still throbbed viciously with every too-deep breath but at the time he was able to focus on other, more important things like not getting his head bashed in with a tire iron.

Even now, standing on the bridge of a British carrier, his body still felt like it was buzzing slightly, his muscles tense and rigid. He wouldn't come down from the high for a little while longer and, to be honest, he's not really looking forward to the fall. The crash is going to be brutal, he knows before it ever happens, and prolonging the inevitable is his primary concern for the moment.

It helps that he's been tasked with baiting Victoria through the radio. He can feel all eyes on him as they try to make contact with the _Diadema_ but rather than being intimidated by the attention, Napoleon is fueled by it. It keeps the adrenaline coursing because he knows this is their only shot and that if they miss this chance it's all over.

It takes a moment or two but it works; they make contact with Victoria and Napoleon proceeds to lay out the embarrassing and disappointing details of her husband's death. The ship tilts slightly as he speaks and the shift in weight causes his ribs to flare in agony. He hisses in a slight breath and does his best to ignore the intense scrutiny Illya is directing toward him.

He feels the slightest wave of dizziness when Victoria begins telling him how she'll track down and systematically kill everyone he's ever known or loved and reaches out to brace himself against the control panel near the radio. It has less to do with her threats and more to do with the fact that he can feel the adrenaline draining from his body, replaced instead with exhaustion, pain, and nausea.

He forces himself to remain upright and steady even as he feels his knees begin to shake slightly beneath him. _Just a little longer_ , he tells himself silently. _Just wait until you're out of the room_.

They lock onto Victoria's location and the missile is launched, a streak of smoke and flames across the cerulean Mediterranean sky. It doesn't take long for it to find its intended target and a brilliant fireball flashes a little ways off in the horizon. There's a dull boom that echoes from the blast and then all is quiet and still once more. There's a unanimous sigh of relief throughout the control room and Napoleon thinks he should be feeling the same thing but he doesn't. Instead he just feels tired and dizzy and sore.

"Well done, Solo," Waverly says from behind him and there's a heavy hand that claps him on the shoulder. The impact is enough to jar his ribs again and for a second Napoleon can't breathe.

He forces a charming grin and nods in acceptance. "Thank you, sir," he replies, trying like hell to keep the clipped tightness out of his voice. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," he says, politely stepping away from Waverly and the crew all around them.

His feet feel heavy and numb and it takes every ounce of concentration he has to keep from stumbling as he makes his way to the door. He thinks he hears Gaby call his name from somewhere back behind him but the door is swinging closed and her voice disappears behind it.

Once outside, he can barely keep one foot in front of the other. Every joint in his body throbs like it's on fire and he feels bruised and battered all over. His ribs are aching sharply beneath the bandages, blinding flares of agony shooting all across his chest and clear up his back. His breathing is short and shallow and while it does relieve some of the pain from his ribs, it leaves him lightheaded and dizzy.

He staggers down the hallway drunkenly, steadying himself occasionally against a wall. He doesn't know where he's going; back to medical, somewhere with a bed, maybe he'll just give up and slump in broom closet for a while. He's honestly not sure.

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave and suddenly he can't walk anymore. His elbow bumps against the wall and Napoleon is only dimly aware that he's leaning all of his weight on said elbow. It won't hold him for long, he's coherent enough to know that but he can't will his body to move any further.

He thinks he hears something behind him but it's hard to tell; there's a weird buzzing in his ears and a tingling all through his body that he could honestly attribute to either exhaustion or the electrocution earlier in the day. He doesn't have an answer for it at the moment; all he knows is that it's annoying.

His elbow slips and he goes with it, sliding down the wall awkwardly in a very undignified way. He probably would have hit the ground full force if Illya hadn't suddenly appeared at his side and caught him by the shoulders, spinning him slightly so that his back was pressed against the wall rather than his arm.

Illya follows him down, keeping both hands clamped on Napoleon's shoulder's until the other agent is sitting on the floor of the hallway with his back pressed against the wall. He remains crouched in front of him, blue eyes stormy and intense as they lock onto him.

Napoleon tries for a smile but he's pretty sure it comes out as a wince. "Probably…" he starts, pausing to take a painful breath and blink away the white fog around the edges of his vision. "Should have listened to your advice...about the hospital bed."

Illya curses in Russian and shakes his head. "You are a fool," he mutters, his tone equal parts exasperated annoyance and grudging fondness.

"Yep," Napoleon agrees because for once he doesn't feel like arguing. He's pretty sure the more he speaks, the greater risk he faces of throwing up again and he's eager to avoid that if possible. He can feel sweat beading across his forehead and along the back of his neck but he can't bring himself to care. He's vaguely aware that he's trembling slightly but he can't tell if it's from exhaustion or something else. He figures it doesn't really matter at this point in time.

He hears a soft gasp off to his left and suddenly Gaby is there, crouched beside him and reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "What happened?" she asks, her eyes focused on Napoleon but the question directed at Illya.

"I'm fine-" Napoleon starts but Illya cuts him off by speaking over him.

"He's pushed himself past the point of exhaustion," Illya tells her, his gaze flickering between Gaby and Napoleon. "I told him to stay here but he didn't listen."

Gaby levels him with a disapproving look and shakes her head. "Honestly, Solo."

The American agent tries to wave away her concern. "I'll be alright, Ms. Teller," he tells her, adamantly ignoring the breathy quality of his words. "Just a little winded, that's all."

Gaby isn't convinced and Illya's frown deepens the more Napoleon speaks. He moves one hand from Napoleon's shoulder and presses it instead against the curve of his ribs. He's mindful of the injuries but Napoleon still winces slightly at the pressure applied to his ribs and Illya mumbles a quiet apology but keeps his hand where it is.

He can feel the other agent's heart jackhammering against his palm, the rhythm hard and uneven. That combined with the catched quality of his breathing makes Illya curse softly beneath his breath.

Gaby hears it and frowns. "What? What's wrong?"

The Russian agent glances between Napoleon and Gaby as if debating whether or not he should explain. Napoleon looks like death warmed over but he still manages to give him a hard look and a slight shake of his head: don't do it.

Even though Gaby was probably fully aware by now of the atrocities her uncle had taken part in, Napoleon doesn't want her burdened with the knowledge of what had happened in The Chair. Rudi may have been a Nazi and a complete sadist but he was still Gaby's uncle, one of the few family members she had left. After everything she had been through that day, (hell, for the past few days to be more precise), he didn't want to add anything else to it.

Gaby apparently doesn't care about any of that though because she sighs in exasperation and resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Just tell me."

"Just a little problem with a short circuit earlier," Napoleon tells her, letting his head tip back against the wall. He's still dizzy but his vision isn't trying to white out anymore so he figures that's a step in the right direction. "Nothing to worry about."

Gaby doesn't buy the line for a second and looks instead to Illya. "A short circuit?"

The Russian agent sighs quietly in defeat. "It was a bit more serious than that," he tells her but thankfully leaves out the rest of the story. "It was strong enough to knock his heart out of rhythm."

Gaby curses quietly in German. "Bastard," she mutters but it's not directed at either of them. She seems to know who was to blame without being told. "And the broken ribs?" she continues, her gaze shifting between the two.

A muscle in Illya's jaw twitches and he shifts slightly under her gaze. "That was my fault."

Gaby just nods like she'd already figured that part out and just needed confirmation. "Alright then," she says in cheery voice. "Off to medical with you!"

Napoleon opens his mouth to say something but Gaby cuts him off with a leveled glare. "You're going. End of discussion."

And that settles it for the most part. Napoleon doesn't bother protesting any further (mostly because he knows Illya would simply toss him over one shoulder to get him to medical and he's reasonably certain Gaby could take him in a fair fight). Besides, if he's being completely honest with himself, he's really not feeling all that great right now and going to medical doesn't actually sound like an all terrible idea.

He doesn't have the energy to argue when Illya loops one of Napoleon's arms around his shoulders, mumbling another quiet apology when the movement comes with a wince. Gaby takes the other side, slipping her arm across his back to provide additional support. It's a really nice gesture because there's like a 50/50 shot that Napoleon will end up on the floor again before this is all over so any additional help is appreciated.

As if to prove this point, Napoleon's knees lock just slightly when he tries to take a step forward and he stumbles. Illya reacts by tightening his hold on Napoleon's arm and Gaby grabs a fistful of the back of his shirt to keep him from pitching forward. It takes a second for the American agent to feel steady enough to take another step but his partners are patient. They wait until he nods before attempting to walk forward again.

Napoleon is a little embarrassed that the very act of walking has become a group effort but if either of his partners are bothered by it, they keep it to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys!


	4. Partners and Codenames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know, you're really going to have to get over this whole 'lone wolf' persona you've adopted over the past few years, Mr. Solo," Waverly tells him as he drops the file back into the folder at the end of Napoleon's bed. "It's simply not conducive to effective teamwork."
> 
> "Good thing I don't work with a team," Napoleon responds hazily, his words coming out muffled and thick.
> 
> "Actually, you do," Waverly counters, taking Napoleon's confused expression in stride. "At least you do, now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! The movie ending has been re-written a little for this final scene so hopefully it's not too terrible! Hope you guys like it! :D

"Three fractured ribs, documented cardiac arrhythmia, and symptoms of a minor concussion." Waverly flips through the records at the foot of Napoleon's bed one more time. It's mostly for effect now; Waverly was more than likely informed about the American agent's condition the minute he was admitted. "Am I leaving anything out?"

Napoleon shakes his head slightly which feels weird because he's pretty muzzy from pain medication. "Think that about covers it," he mumbles thickly, squinting a little so he can make out Waverly's face better. It comes into focus for a few seconds before becoming fuzzy and blurred around the edges again.

Illya and Gaby had gracelessly dragged him into the ship's clinic a few hours earlier, dumping him on the nearest bed and cornering the startled physician a second or so later. Illya was ready to tear into him for allowing Napoleon out the door the first time but Napoleon prevented this by informing him that the medic in front of them was not, in fact, the one who had wrapped his ribs when he came in the first time. Illya made a personal vow to track said physician down later and give him a piece of his mind but there were other concerns at the moment.

Knowing that no amount of smooth talking could help him now, Napoleon was forced to sit and listen as Illya explained the events of The Chair in excruciating detail. Gaby, to her credit, remained remarkably impassive when Illya described Rudi's involvement and his subsequent demise. The only time her eyes widened and the muscles in her jaws tensed is when Illya told the physician he had to perform CPR on his partner after the last shock stopped his heart. She glanced at Napoleon, her expression dark and hard to read. She was angry but not at him; whatever doubts she may have had about her uncle had been shattered in a matter of seconds.

Arrangements were made for him to be transported to the nearest hospital once they made it back to the mainland but in the meantime he was stuck in the medical wing of the ship. The onboard physician had taken it from there, monitoring him closely until they made it back to the harbor where an ambulance was already waiting. Napoleon thought all of this was a bit unnecessary but he had very little say in the matter as he was ushered into the back of the ambulance and taken to a hospital two miles away.

The evaluation had gone about as well as Napoleon would have expected and he was subsequently hooked up to an EKG, confined to a bed, and forbidden from leaving the hospital for a full 48 hours so they could monitor his heart to make sure no serious damage had been done. They re-bandaged his ribs and hooked him up to an IV that fed both fluids and pain medication into the vein in his arm.

If there was any justice in the world, Illya and Gaby were being subjected to the same treatment and confined to the hospital as well. Napoleon doubted that somehow.

"You know, you're really going to have to get over this whole 'lone wolf' persona you've adopted over the past few years, Mr. Solo," Waverly tells him as he drops the file back into the folder at the end of Napoleon's bed. "It's simply not conducive to effective teamwork."

"Good thing I don't work with a team," Napoleon responds hazily, his words coming out muffled and thick.

"Actually, you do," Waverly counters, taking Napoleon's confused expression in stride. "At least you do, now."

At the other agent's continued confusion, Waverly takes pity on him and decides to elaborate. "It seems your partnership with and Mr. Kuryakin should be extended a bit longer. The three of you have proven to be successful and effective in particularly delicate assignments and we'd like to keep you together for a bit longer as a result."

Napoleon opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then closes it once more in defeat. He doesn't know what to make of the news and he's not entirely sure he's coherent enough to understand it at the moment (the painkillers are pretty strong). Sure, he liked working with Illya and Gaby on this assignment but he's never been much for partners or teams and this is all a little much to take in all at once.

"I'll give you some time to think about it," Waverly tells him as he turns toward the door. "Oh, and you have a new codename. Rather a good one, too: U.N.C.L.E."

The door closes behind him and Napoleon has just enough time to think what a terrible name that is before he succumbs to the pull of the painkillers and slips into a drug induced sleep.

**OOOOO**

When Napoleon opens his eyes again, he has no idea what time it is but he can tell it's late. The lights in the clinic are still on but they're muted and dim to help the patients sleep. There are no clocks on the wall but from sheer circadian rhythm alone, Napoleon guesses it's between three and four o'clock in the morning.

Gaby is curled up in the chair beside his bed, sound asleep and covered in Illya's coat. She had changed clothes at some point, trading the blue jumpsuit they'd been given once they got back on the ship with a long-sleeve shirt and a pair of black pants. Her hair is down and she's barefoot and honestly this is the most relaxed she's looked since all of this began. Napoleon smiles a little at the thought.

"Decided to wake up?" a deep voice asks from the other side of the bed and Napoleon turns to see Illya occupying the other chair. He's changed clothes as well but, unlike Gaby, he still looks as stiff and uptight as ever.

"Decided to lurk?" Napoleon asks in response, wincing when his ribs shift and the wires snaking beneath his shirt snag when he tries to move. The monitors beep in warning but that's about it.

"Decided to keep watch," Illya corrects him easily, his eyes locked on the other agent. Once he's satisfied that the pain was merely temporary, he relaxes just a little.

"Not used to people watching me when I sleep, Peril," Napoleon teases lightly, trying to shift into a more comfortable position without jostling his ribs too much. It takes a few seconds and exhaustion combined with the tight bindings leave him a little breathless by the end.

He winces again and nods toward the end of the bed where the medical team had tucked his clothes and personal items into a small plastic bin. "Got something for you," he tells Illya, indicating the bin. "I meant to give it you earlier but-" he shrugs and gestures to the room with one hand.

Illya stands silently and picks up the bin, sifting through it until he finds the pants Napoleon had been wearing on the island. There's a watch inside one of the front pockets; his father's watch. For a moment Illya can't breathe.

He takes it out and loops it around his wrist, the weight warm and familiar against his skin. He looks it over carefully, searching for any kind of damage the bastard who took it may have caused. It still looks as good as ever.

He opens his mouth to say something but Napoleon just waves him off casually. "Lucky find," he says, lightly downplaying the importance of it

Napoleon's eyes land on something on the bedside table and it brings all the stress and frustration from the past few days back into sharp focus. It's the hard drive, sitting innocently on the table like it wasn't at the center of what likely could have been World War III. Napoleon wants to burn it to ashes.

Illya notices his gaze and follows it to the hard drive. He frowns, conflicted. "You know what my mission is." It's not a question at this point.

"Same as mine was," Napoleon replies easily. "Kill me if necessary to get to that."

Illya looks between his newly acquired partner and the hard drive on the table. "So now what?"

The American agent just shrugs one shoulder. "We could burn it."

Illya almost laughs but then he realizes the other agent is serious. He thinks about it for a moment, giving serious consideration to the suggestion. Finally he nods and glares at the hard drive again. "I like this plan."

"Good, it's settled then," Napoleon says, shifting again and, subsequently, wincing again. "As soon as I'm out of here we'll have a bonfire."

"Medical clearance first," Illya tells him and Napoleon resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Medical clearance first."

Illya nods in approval and reclaims his seat, absently touching the watch at his wrist a few times as if convincing himself it's still there. Napoleon sees this gesture but doesn't point it out; the watch is important to Illya so, by extension, it's important to Napoleon. He glances over at Gaby sleeping in the chair and then back at the large Russian agent sitting on the other side of the bed. As far as partnerships go, Napoleon figures it could definitely be worse.

"Absolutely hated working with you, Peril," he says, leaning back just slightly to take some of the pressure off his ribs.

Illya suppresses a small smile. "You're a terrible spy, Cowboy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading guys! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Russian Translation:
> 
> упрямый ублюдок- stubborn bastard  
> дышать черт вас- damn you, breathe
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading guys! More to come soon! :D


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